Haunted
by Uniasus
Summary: When he prayed to God to let him live, his prayers worked. They worked when he didn't want Sherlock to be dead too, but not quite the same way.


**Haunted**

_By Uniasus_

* * *

It started the day after that visit to the cemetery, where he asked for Sherlock to not be dead.

God had heard him.

It wasn't the first time. _God, please let me live_. And he had. _Just, don't be dead._ A prayer to Sherlock and God at the same time, and here was Sherlock, standing in the doorway of his bedroom at Baker Street but by the time John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes the figure was gone.

Despite the clock reading 3 in the morning, he couldn't go back to bed. Instead he made himself tea and stood staring at the blog homepage on his laptop.

#####

It was the little things that drew him out of Baker Street.

He had said it at the graveyard to Mrs. Hudson, he couldn't stay in 221B, but when he was packing he found it hard to actually move the boxes so they stayed in stacks around the flat while he continued to live with items that could all fit in a box. A week's worth of clothes. One mug. One plate. One knife. One fork. He had take out all the time, not wanting to unpack the pots and pans. Moving seemed almost too final. But there was all the little odd things...

One morning, there was a second mug in the cupboard and a box that had been taped shut was open. One day after returning from the surgery he noticed the toothpaste was not where he left it. Sometimes there was the imprint of a body on the sofa, the skull and violin (he hadn't packed Sherlock's things, just his, as he couldn't bare to touch them) would move, and seeing Sherlock in his bedroom in the middle of the night hadn't been a one time thing.

But when these things seemed to leave the confines of Baker Street, when he looked out the window of his office one day and saw Sherlock standing across the street, wearing a jacket that looked liked one he had lost months ago, he knew he had to move.

He had asked for Sherlock to not be dead, and what that resulted in was Sherlock haunting Baker Street. And now branching out to haunt him. That couldn't happen. It was okay for him to break down crying in the four safe walls of 221B, but not in public.

Mrs. Hudson was sad to see him go, but understood. She didn't sleep much, going to bed late, waking up early, and had heard footsteps sounding from above when she knew John was sleeping or at work. She knew that place was haunted, but it brought a strange sort of comfort to her that John couldn't find. He supposed it had to do with age. Or the fact that it was easier to live with the noises of a haunting rather than the visions of it.

#####

The day he actually hauled those boxes down the seventeen steps to the street, bad leg protesting just a little (enough to remind him it was not entirely well but no where near bad enough for the cane) Mycroft showed up.

While John went up and down the stairs, the elder Holmes just stood in the middle of the sitting room, frowning at the mantle above the fireplace. John had never touched it, those were all Sherlock's things, but things had moved nonetheless and he could tell Mycroft noticed. It was hard to not notice the staff paper on the music stand either, handwritten notes and rests filled in. Sherlock composing, even in death.

Mycroft muttered under his breath, reading the notes.

Mycroft asked him about the music, but John shook his head. He knew a bit about music, could read the notes, but couldn't do much but pick out simple tunes on the piano. That score on the stand was too complex.

"Have you seen him, Doctor Watson?" The man asked and John paused before answering. Technically, no, he hadn't seen the younger Holmes, but he knew that if he said that something in his voice would give him away so he decided to just save them the time and spit it out.

"I've seen his ghost."

#####

Yet, he couldn't get Baker Street out of his head entirely. His new flat was on the same block, just the other side and when he looked out of his bedroom window he could make out the building he used to live in. It was also incredibly lucky he got it at such a good price, something about a rapist having lived there in the past and bad karma, but John hadn't heard of such things before and suspected Mycroft's hand.

Sherlock's ghost hadn't followed him. John half expected it too, but there was no sightings near his office. Or on the tube or in any part of London. Once a week he came by to check up on Mrs. Hudson, and she still heard the footsteps from upstairs. John suspected things still moved up there, as Mycroft never removed Sherlock's belongings and paid Mrs. Hudson rent in full for the flat.

John thought it was a shrine to his brother, a better representation of his personality and life than a black gravestone, and some obscure physical sign of a hope that Sherlock wasn't actually dead but fooling them all because if anyone could do that it would be Sherlock Holmes.

It reminded John of parents not touching the room of their kidnapped child, knowing they were out there somewhere and would come home one day. He never would have believed Mycroft to be so sentimental, not that the secret hand of the government ever visited the flat or even took a car past it.

John had no such belief though. He had seen Sherlock jump. Had seen the blood, felt the rapidly cooling body, heard those last words.

He could never walk up those seventeen steps. Whenever he checked up on Mrs. Hudson, it was over tea in her kitchen.

#####

Life grew complacent. With Sherlock gone, there was no cases. Greg didn't call him for help, but he did call for a pint every once in awhile.

But when Winter really hit, when Christmas was knocking and the cold wind blowing John noticed two things. One, when signing his name on patient's forms his hands were shaking. Two, when he left for work the next morning he actually considered taking his cane.

Mycroft had told him, roughly two years ago, that he missed war. But that's wasn't quite right. The battlefield of London, with with crimes and grisly shadows, wasn't war. War was senseless killing, isolation, serving a cause, and dying. Fighting crime in London was about mystery, puzzles, and knowing the world better. But both contained elements of brotherhood, of shared danger and the natural high of adrenaline. He tried going back to rugby, to that rough sport of tackles and competition and it helped for while.

Until he saw Sherlock at a game.

He joined a sky-diving class.

#####

"I should have known you were an adrenaline junkie," Greg said when John told him.

"I like life exciting."

"You could have asked to help with cases."

John winced. Because yes, he could have, and maybe, maybe that would have been enough, to live through the danger of cases and the thrill of the chase. But that world reminded him of Sherlock too much, and going back to it without his closest brother in arms felt wrong.

"I see him sometimes," he said, "Sherlock, I mean. Just watching me. It's unnerving. If I help you, I'd see him all the time. And I don't think I can handle that."

Greg nodded, singling for the bartender to bring another round and when it came John spoke again. "Don't think I would be much help any way."

"Don't say that," Greg responded, but it was only half meant, a man trying to let his friend know that he's not useless and shouldn't put himself down. But they both knew that the statement was true. John Watson was no Sherlock Holmes.

And maybe, he has moved beyond crime scenes. Jumping out of planes was a lot more exhilarating.

#####

He never really announces to Mrs. Hudson when he's going to come buy, just shows up, but it's always in the same time block. So when he was using his key to get in and she didn't answer John was worried. But she just wasn't home. Maybe out shopping, maybe seeing a play. John sat at the table, planning on waiting, when he heard the creaks from the ceiling.

While Mrs. Hudson heard them, he never had and while he had never set foot in the flat since he moved today he felt a desire to do so.

Key in hand, he climbed the stairs, put the key in the lock, and turned the handle.

The flat was cold, the kitchen window was open and John hurried to close it. Chore done, he looked around the flat.

What threw him off was how it looked like someone lived there. A clean someone, but someone none the less.

There was a kettle on the stove, the lack of dust indicating use. The music score on the stand had changed, a new page was in front while behind it stood ten pages of music notes. The couch still had a slight dip, but what got John was the rather more obvious one in the chair that he used to frequent. John found himself opening the fridge to look for some type of body parts, but the inside was clear and dark. It had been unplugged months ago.

John trudged up to his room, it hadn't changed, not really, but there was now a picture on the night side table. A candid shot of Sherlock staring into a microscope at St. Bart's and John leaning on the counter behind him, staring towards the door of the lab. What an odd thing for Mycroft to add, but then again, that's what it had been like for eighteen months, hadn't it? It was a reminder of the time John had spent with Sherlock, nothing else in the flat spoke of that. Sherlock's belongings were all from before he had moved in.

He didn't think much about Sherlock these days. He was moving on, slowly, and while staring at the Baker Street window his thoughts would sometimes turn to the consulting detective, more often than not he was thinking about what he saw on telly or a case at work or his next sky-diving lesson.

But here, at Baker Street, it was impossible not to be assaulted with images of his dead friend. With scenes of Sherlock trying to be cool, upturned collar and turning just so to cause his coat to fly out. With Sherlock analyzing crime scenes quicker than John could do two plus eight equals ten. With them running through London and chasing bad guys and going through evidence and sharing smiles and excitement and purpose.

John couldn't help it. He started crying and fell face first into his old pillow (that he's fairly sure he packed and took with him, along with the sheets that are yet here somehow) and didn't question the sent of Sherlock's skin.

#####

He doesn't really think about what landed him in the hospital until Mycroft shows up and interrupts Greg.

John hadn't actually seen Mycroft since he moved out of Baker Street, but he wouldn't be surprised if the other man used his government connections to check in on him once in awhile. Mycroft wasn't uncaring, for all that he seemed (the Baker Street shrine was evidence of that) but it shouldn't warrant a hospital visit.

"Nothing permanent, I take it." He said, taking in the damages to John's forehead and the slight chemical burns around his face from the airbag.

"Not to me, but Jenny...she was in the car with me. They say she won't make it."

And something in Mycroft's eyes shifted, though his body hasn't even blinked and John just knew Mycroft expected that and there was something off about this crash.

When Mycroft bid them good afternoon, Greg turned to him and said. "Tell me every single detail."

There wasn't much to tell. Jenny and him lived in the same part of London and were in the same sky diving group. She had a car, he didn't, and so they carpooled out to the small airfield where they had lessons every other week.

They were hit on their return to the city, a broad side collision to the passenger's side. John had been driving, Jenny had landed off that day and sprained her ankle. The other vehicle had been an SUV, driven by some young man still getting used to his license. John had heard he was fine, most of the damage had been to Jenny's mini and Jenny herself.

"So she usually drives?"

"Yes."

#####

Something, he can't quite tell what, told him to go to Baker Street that night and sleep in his old bed. Sherlock's ghost was there, sitting at the end of the mattress.

Over breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, between her twitters and mothering over his injuries, she mentioned she heard the ghost's footsteps again.

#####

He wasn't sure how he knew, but Sherlock's ghost left Baker Street and started haunting him instead. John felt as if he was being followed everywhere, and not just through the CCTV cameras curtsey of Mycroft. No, this was prickles on the back of the next, sudden coat fluttering when he turned around, stalking. He never actually saw Sherlock's ghost, but what else could it be following him around London?

Greg had other ideas, neither he nor John believed the car accident had truly been an accident, and if the DI showed up to his flat once in awhile or called more frequently to check up on him John didn't mind.

But he never noticed anyone following John and that just convinced him further. It was Sherlock's ghost.

Idly, he wondered if Sherlock's ghost ever talked to Irene Adler's. Greg told him he was crazy for thinking such thoughts.

#####

He had gone to visit Mrs. Hudson for tea, and just as he was reaching for a biscuit there came a frantic pounding on the door. It was Greg, yelling something about if she was okay.

She opened the door blinking in surprise, John standing behind her. "What's wrong Greg?" he asked, noting the inspector's wide eyes and harsh breathing and then there is a black car pulling up to the curve. John knew it belonged to Mycroft before the window rolled down and Anthea's voice floated out. "Get in."

John pushed Mrs. Hudson out the door, grabbing his and her coat in the process. Greg helped Mrs. Hudson in the car and as John locked the door he heard footsteps from upstairs.

#####

They go to the Diogenes club, John rather miffed at Mycroft's cloak and dagger routine because it wasn't as cloak and dagger feeling as normal. Something was up, and something serious.

"I figured that I should tell you John, that your accident was intentional."

"We figured that," Greg said, but Mrs. Hudson looked shocked.

"What's the point of bring us here, Mycroft?" John asked, voice full of suspicion.

"I wanted to tell you we found who was responsible and that you needn't worry about a second attempt on your life."

John wanted to ask who, for a name, but he knew Mycroft wouldn't give it up. It was irreverent data. "The same person who was stalking me?" he asked instead (he knew it was Sherlock's ghost who was, but in case it wasn't...) and it caused his brain to stall as he realized Mycroft had no idea about that recent problem. John's stalker was something the government official hadn't been aware off, but he still had enough information to figure out who it might have been and that someone was of no concern.

"Yes," Mycroft said, and John was surprised he could see through the lie. Either the elder Holmes was shook up about missing something, or he wanted John to catch the lie but he can't understand why.

Maybe John isn't the only one being stalked by Sherlock's ghost. Maybe Mycroft sees his baby brother walking the streets of London too.

Maybe they are all haunted, John with his moving objects and visions, Mrs. Hudson with her footsteps, Mycroft with how he reacted to the musical score, and Greg with his tendency to look over his shoulder but never talk about it.

Maybe being haunted was getting to them, Mycroft not lying properly and John jumping out of planes.

Maybe John should never had asked for Sherlock to not be dead.

#####

He visited Sherlock's grave the next morning. It had been awhile since he did that, it hurt too much, but it felt right to do so and as awkward as the cross in his hand felt it also felt proper.

"Rest in peace," he said, lying the cross necklace over the top of the gravestone. He stared for one second, the silver standing out against the stone was hard to ignore, and then turned on his heels to walk way.

Sherlock's ghost wasn't helping anybody.

#####

Two nights later, Mrs. Hudson called and she whispered into the receiver instead of talking in a normal voice. "John?"

He sat up straighter at the bar, Greg beside him instantly alerted to something, to answer. "Mrs. Hudson, what's wrong?"

"There's music, coming from upstairs. A violin. I think someone's broken in."

When John looked at Greg, he pulled out his wallet and paid, the pints in front of them only half gone. "We'll be right there."

#####

John figured there wasn't a song that Sherlock played that he didn't know on some level. Not the names, but the tune and what it did to Sherlock's mind: calm it, blank it, speed it up, help him think, expand it, try to force it to sympathize with others.

This song though, this song was different. John knew from the beginning that he had never heard it before and yet something about it was so Sherlock he couldn't help his throat from tightening up.

He could just picture his deceased friend staring out the window while he played, wrist stiff and elbow supple as he drew the bow back and forth over the strings.

Greg went up the stairs first. He had his weapon on him, John's was across the block in his flat, but he still went up second with a heavy cast iron pan in his head. They paused at the door, silently counting to three together and then Greg kicked the door in.

There was a screech of the violin as the intruder was startled. He whipped around and all John thought was _Sherlock, that's Sherlock._

He closed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. Greg was all police action, telling the intruder to put down the violin and get down on the floor. When John opened his eyes in five seconds the man in 221B would revel itself to not be Sherlock but someone else with dark curly hair. But when his eyes opened nothing had changed. The intruder was still Sherlock and Greg was standing over him with his gun trained on him, looking towards John and pale as ash.

There was no way this was Sherlock, this was still his ghost. Or some person who's face reminded John on his old friend. John walked up next to Greg, and clobbered the would be thief with the frying pan.

The man gave a grunt and went limp, leaving John feeling more winded that he should be from such a simple act.

"Does he look like Sherlock to you?" he asked, secretly expecting Greg to say no, because a yes brought up unthinkable things because they both couldn't see the same hallucination.

But Greg said, "Yes."

#####

When Mrs. Hudson had the courage to creep up the stairs, John and Greg had already tied 'Sherlock' to a chair.

"Goodness, is that?"

"We're not sure," John admitted, staring at the unconscious man in the chair. "I mean, Sherlock is dead. But..."

"Certainly looks like him." Greg said, adding another layer of packing tape around the man's left wrist.

"What did you do?"

"I hit him with your frying pan." John handed it back to her and she took it, seeing it in a new light.

'Sherlock' groaned, and they all watched at him as he woke up. He still looked like Sherlock, John had expected the image to fade away after the man had slumped from the blow to his head, but the image had stayed and even now the man reminded John of how Sherlock would look after he woke up from a crash on the couch.

John was glad Greg took charge, because with the way this man was looking at him, John couldn't talk. Just stare.

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Who are you, really?"

"It's me!"

John was glad Mrs. Hudson was holding the frying pan, he wanted to hit the man again.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." John whispered, and the voice that came out was dry, cracked, and painful. Really, it had been almost a year. He shouldn't sound so raw.

And his voice caused the man to react, there was something like regret in that face, and guilt and sorrow.

"I am sorry for misleading you."

John knew that this man was really Sherlock Holmes.

But really, he had suspected that since he had first heard those violin strands because he would know Sherlock's playing style anywhere. And now that the shock was wearing off, that Sherlock's face wasn't melting into a another, the thought that this was really his friend in front of him filled his mind and all John felt was a sense of fulfillment and peace.

In two running steps John was hugging Sherlock tight and muttering _you're a bloody bastard _and Sherlock was answering _I know_ and now that John knew this was truly Sherlock, that he was okay aside from needing twelve course meals for the next month, his relief at seeing his friend was quickly evaporating. He pulled back, and as if Sherlock was a school boy, boxed his ears.

"Don't you ever, ever do that again."

"I promise."

* * *

**A/N:** I know, I know, many of these types of stories. But I couldn't resist ^_^


End file.
